


what to do

by todareistodo



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todareistodo/pseuds/todareistodo
Summary: trent gets virgil in the team secret santa. he’s never been more lost
Relationships: Trent Alexander Arnold/Virgil Van Dijk
Comments: 12
Kudos: 69





	what to do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taareds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taareds/gifts).

“You’re _shagging_.” Ox reminds him incredulously.

Trent glares at him, lips pursed. “And?”

“You should know what he’d want for Christmas.”

Trent groans and thuds his head back against the wall. He wasn’t expecting it to be quite as close as it is, so he slams into it with a little more force than was necessary. He winces and massages the crown of his head, little piece of paper with Virgil’s name scribbled on it crumpled in his fist.

“You’ve got Rhian.” Trent accuses.

“I don’t know what the little bugger wants, do I?”

“He’s your best friend.”

Ox stares at him from under his eyebrows, deadpan. “That’s the problem.”

Trent shakes his head exasperatedly and looks up to catch Virgil’s eye across the lounge. He’s balancing against a pool cue, head tilted to the side as he scrutinises Joe’s shot. When he sees Trent looking he grins, wide. Trent smiles back bashfully, glad the warmth in his cheeks can’t really be seen.

“Speak to Jomez, he’s his best mate.”

Trent scoffs; Joe has firmly and repeatedly stated that he wants no part in their relationship, no details and absolutely _no_ involvement. He’s too mature to make vomiting noises when he catches them kissing, but Trent knows he wants to.

“Who’d you get?” Trent prods when they’re in the car going for a coffee after training. He’s got Virgil’s name in his pocket. He isn’t sure why, but it feels wrong to throw it away.

Virgil laughs loudly, right from his stomach. He scratches behind Trent’s ear in response, and it doesn’t really make sense but Trent understands. He understands that he leans into the touch and that Virgil chuckles warmly and keeps his hand there a few seconds longer, anyway.

“That defeats the purpose, no?”

“Well, technically.”

“Don’t cheat.” Virgil teases. He’s focused back on the road and Trent stares at the veins in his forearm tensed against the steering wheel. It’s kind of mesmerising the way they pulse slightly. He cocks his head, entirely distracted. Virgil’s laugh brings him back down to earth.

“I’m sure you’ll think of the perfect present.” Virgil says smoothly, squeezing his thigh. “You’re too stubborn not to.”

Trent writhes away from the grip on his leg even though he wants to press into it and glares at Virgil until he turns his head away in acquiesce. Trent spends the rest of the drive staring at the passing traffic, counting the blue cars and wondering what on earth Virgil Van Dijk wants for Christmas.

* * *

“You’re not supposed to tell anyone who you’ve got.” Joe reminds him vacantly, more interested in meticulously lacing his boots.

“Like everybody actually keeps it a secret.”

Joe turns to look at him, quietly disbelieving. “They do?”

Trent just huffs and crosses his arms tight across his chest. It’s the third day since Robbo excitedly dolled out the paper slips, waving his arms around and galloping between them. Trent’s scoured Virgil’s internet history for some hints, and the only interesting finding resulted in an eventful night and an aching Trent still feels vaguely now.

“Tell me what he wants, Joe.” Trent snaps, exhausted by the whole ordeal, irritated that he can’t think of a single idea that isn’t a hellishly expensive watch Virgil already has twelve of anyway.

“I don’t know.”

“Great best mate you are.”

“You’re his boyfriend.”

Trent sighs, breath pressed out of him in his frustration. “Unofficially.”

“Bloody hell, are you 10?”

Trent jabs him in the ribs with his elbow, and he knows it hurts because they’re sharp and bony and he broke a boy’s nose with them in an under-18s game once. Joe just grunts indignantly and shoves him back.

“Get a joke present, I dunno.”

Trent considers it, briefly, and it suddenly makes him feel very unfunny when nothing comes to mind. He groans and kneads his forehead, leaning against Joe for support. His body tenses up, muscles in his arms hard against Trent’s side but he doesn’t shove him off. After a little he even relaxes against him, and it’s kind of nice. Trent sighs contentedly and tries to remember what cologne Virgil wears.

“Should I be worried?” Virgil teases when he walks in, hair coming loose from his bun and curling across his forehead in little ringlets. There’s some crippling desire in him every single time to thread those curls around his fingers. It makes him feel vaguely ill.

“Piss off.” Trent mutters, but he smiles a little.

“Charming.”

Joe is already peeling himself away. Trent snorts but lifts his head to allow him to wriggle away. Virgil is replaces the weight of Joe beside him, squeezing the back of his neck and kneading into the nape. Trent rolls his shoulders and holds his head back to look up at Virgil upside down. They grin at each other.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” He asks.

Trent hangs his head, trying to ease the crick in it from the odd position and all the blood that rushed to the top. Virgil sits beside him, legs spread so their knees knock. Their training kit is too thick for Trent to feel the warmth of his skin but he can feel the phantom heat anyway.

“Going to Mam and Dad’s, obviously.”

Virgil smirks. “Alright, smartass.”

“You can come, I suppose.”

His eyebrow raises, mouth quirked. “Yeah?”

Trent swallows nervously against the dryness in his mouth, wincing when his throat makes a strange gurgling noise. Virgil’s eyes just soften slightly and Trent feels all warm and tingly with the fondness.

“Yeah. It’d be nice.”

Virgil smiles. He leans forward to peck Trent softly, nothing they could get in trouble for at work, but enough to make Trent curse himself colourfully in his head for flushing at.

“I’d like that.” He agrees.

* * *

“Dinner?” Ben repeats.

“Yeah.” He nods enthusiastically. He spins his phone round on the countertop so Ben can see the restaurant he’s showing. It’s fancy and specialises in expensive steak; it’s all booked out but Trent’s sure with a few name drops he’s not above making, he can wriggle himself in.

“Bit presumptuous, innit?” Ben stirs his latte and licks the spoon clean, unbothered by Trent’s spluttering.

“We’re like -“

“Shagging.”

Trent shrugs and takes a gulp of his own drink. He didn’t realise how big a mouth he has until everyone has begun casually bringing up him and Virgil like it’s common knowledge, and really, with the way Trent’s apparently been sharing it, it probably is. Ben was the first to find out, though, and is never short of exasperated demands that he actually communicate with Virgil like an adult about the nature of their relationship. 

“Mm.” He hums noncommittally.

“Anyway, the person isn’t supposed to know who gave them the present. It will literally have your name on it.”

Trent scoffs, kicking his legs out under the table. Ben sniggers and they kick at each other childishly under the table a little. Trent waves a reluctant white flag when Ben stubs his toe against his sole, whining and swinging his legs back under the chair so they’re out of reach. Ben smirks smugly and gestures back to the phone.

“Get him a spa day or something.”

Trent snorts, loudly and unattractive into his coffee. “Virgil Van Dijk on a spa day?”

Ben blushes a little and Trent coos, reaching across the table to pinch his cheek. They stick their tongues out at each other, before Ben shrugs and starts listing off all the presents he’s ever given people and Trent appreciates the help, he really does, but the Dove shower and body set he got his Mum last-minute a few years ago isn’t of the greatest assistance.

“Well, you’ll think of something.” Ben reasons when they hug goodbye, tight and long.

Trent squeezes him into his body even when they start to let go, wishing him a Happy Christmas with a beam and a little broken sadness in his chest that he can’t see Ben all the time and wish him Happy Christmas properly. Ben just shoves into him with the weight of his shoulder, and they grin at each other quietly. He waves around the handfuls of gift bags Trent’s palmed off on him for all his family and even the dog, and then he’s climbing into his car and it’s another month before Trent will properly see his best friend.

He shakes his head vigorously to clear it, flicking the Christmas tree air freshener swaying from the car mirror for no reason other than something to do, and drives home bellowing along to Slade more enthusiastically than anyone will ever be allowed to hear.

* * *

“Christ, Trent, that’s just the fancy dinner taken too far.”

Robbo is staring at him with those wide saucer eyes he always has on for emphasis. He’s resting against the bus window, team hoodie used as a pillow. He’d been half asleep, whining unintelligibly as Trent poked him, but the tickling had been the final straw and he’s begrudgingly listening to Trent complain about his lack of ideas.

“I thought it was quite thoughtful.” Trent snaps back.

“When have you got time to take him to a bloody woodland retreat?”

“It’s the sentiment.”

“That’s what you say about scrapbooks, Trent.” Robbo sighs, like Trent is painfully stupid and missing the point through sheer ignorance. “Not a glorified Centre Parcs.”

Trent huffs and suggests they watch a Christmas film, which launches them into another mild-tempered disagreement that really should remain mild-tempered, and would have, if Trent wasn’t desperately stubborn and incapable of backing down. It’s how they end up watching a film neither of them actually like, glaring at each other from the corner of their eye.

20 minutes in Trent’s eyes ache from the awkward angle and he clambers out of his seat to wander up and down the aisle and pester everyone else. Dejan tells him in no uncertain terms to fuck off, and Bobby just beams at him silently. Ox is throwing bits of crumbled up Quality Street wrapper at Rhian’s head and dipping behind his seat, choking his laughter out into his hand so Rhian can’t see him every time he turns round. Watching it keeps Trent vaguely entertained for a few minutes, before Ox decides to start launching them at him, so he skips through to the back of the bus.

“Hey.” Virgil smiles softly. Joe is asleep against the window pane, mouth open and fogging up the glass. Trent takes a quick photo before moving closer, until Virgil can loop his arm around the back of his thighs and stroke his hipbone over his joggers.

“Y’alright?” Trent whispers, tugging at the strands falling loose from Virgil’s bun.

He nods, squeezing Trent’s hips tighter for a minute before he goes back to the loose hold. Trent wants to sit on his lap but he figures that’s probably a bit much on the team bus after a Sunday game. He’s not mentally prepared for the endless piss-taking.

“I’m cold.” Trent whines, pulling the drawstring on his hood in tight. He draws his eyebrows together and pouts, hoping it’s pleading.

Virgil chuckles but he’s already wriggling out of his hoodie, handing it over with a smirk. Trent grins triumphantly and pulls it on over his own, zipping it up to the top so Virgil’s cologne and shower gel is right under his nose. It’s warm with his body heat and too-big for him. He pulls the sleeves over his hands and beams.

“Cheers!” He bleats before skipping back down the aisle, smirking at Virgil’s incredulous scoff.

Robbo rolls his eyes when Trent slips back into his seat, picking at the strings on Virgil’s hoodie and shaking his head. He mutters something under his breath that sounds like _unbelievable_, clucking his tongue before shoving the earphone back in Trent’s ear and unpausing the new cartoon Grinch which Trent definitely did not agree to.

* * *

“A car?”

“I don’t know.” Trent whines, voice muffled very slightly by the table top his face is pressed against. “I’m so stuck.”

“When you consider giving your boyfriend a car because you dunno what else to get, you know you’ve got too much money.”

Trent eyeballs his brother but he’s frankly too tired to be moody about it for long. He rests his forehead back down on the table, shutting his eyes. Their secret Santa exchange is in less than a week and Trent is still dejectedly asking a piece of wood if a car is a good idea.

“I’m joking.” Trent says half-heartedly. There’s the thud of a mug against wood. “Ta.”

Tyler hums disbelievingly and starts flicking through his phone unbothered, conversation over. Trent turns to stare at the Christmas tree until his eyes blur over, vision just a kaleidoscope of beaming colour. He shuts his eyes and sighs.

“Would he want a big expensive present?” Tyler asks.

He hums, feeling it vibrate through his throat. This whole ordeal has made him doubt everything he thinks he knows about Virgil, made him doubt he really knows him at all outside of football and sex; it’s ridiculous, really, because the information is in there, from sleepy conversations in bed and long plane journeys and meals out when they have the time, but he just can’t get to it. It’s a frustratingly blank slate.

Tyler shrugs and changes tack. “Is he coming over for Christmas?”

Trent smiles sheepishly into the cradle of his arms. “Yeah. I haven’t told Mam yet so keep your mouth shut.”

Tyler snorts, holding his hands up in mock defeat before going back to his phone. He starts whistling as he taps, slurping his tea loudly and he only continues to be more annoying when Trent kicks him in the knee.

He groans and thinks about having Virgil there on Christmas Day. He hadn’t thought over it, honestly, before offering it. Just his mouth running before his brain, but Virgil’s quiet gratefulness makes him think it was okay. He doesn’t want him to think he’s rushing, or pushy, or in _love_, but it’d be nice to knock on his parents’ door with the surety of Virgil behind him. Besides, his Mum loves him and how ever much he whinges and gripes at his Mum’s blatant over excitement and Virgil’s willingness to please, it makes something light and fluttery tingle in his chest.

“Man wants you to bring the bubbly and that.” Tyler tells him absentmindedly.

Trent scoffs. “I’m not a wine connoisseur.”

Tyler nods his head, agreeing primly. “Get Virgil to help.”

So now Trent has to drag Virgil around a supermarket doing his family’s Christmas food shop, after failing to give him a secret Santa present, or any Christmas present for that matter. Trent groans and consigns himself to being single by Sunday.

* * *

“Stop being a drama queen.” Virgil tells him smoothly. He’s smoothing down his hair, and Trent bites his tongue against the request that he leave it messy or maybe even out of the bun, because he’s asked before and got a firm no.

He’s perched on the bed, ready and waiting, staring down at his trainers. The present is burning into his jacket pocket, carefully bubble-wrapped and papered, labelled with Trent’s neatest handwriting and his own name in print because fuck what Ben said, he wants the credit immediately. Well, only if this goes to plan.

“I’m sure your present is perfect.” Virgil reassures him pleasantly, in that voice that’s calm and controlled and regularly employed when Trent is being an irritating brat. He’s self-aware, at the very least.

Trent even sings along to the radio on the way, muttering the words into his hand rather than chanting them word-for-word, and it’s overshadowed by Virgil’s exaggerated crooning, but it’s Christmas, and some concessions have to be made. By the time they pull up outside, he’s even removed his hand.

Virgil tucks their interlinked hands into his coat pocket as they walk through the car park, bodies close enough that you can’t see it unless you’re looking for it, but so close it’d probably cause a bit of a stir regardless. Trent just squeezes the palm pressed to his and tries to swallow down the growing ball of nerves wedging itself into his throat.

The function room Robbo rented out is absolutely dripping in Christmas decorations. It edges the boundary between tasteful and tacky a little further to the tacky side, but Trent manages to stop himself critiquing the cheap-looking tinsel lining the walls because Robbo bounds up to them, brimming with pure excitement, and even Trent isn’t enough of a bitch to knock him down.

He leads them to their seats, opposite each other, with a flourish of his hands and a wide open grin. Trent tries to keep his sniggering behind the cover of his hands, but the strange bow Robbo does when he pulls out Virgil’s seat sends him into a coughing fit. Virgil raises his eyebrows at him warningly, but his lips are curved slightly, eyes warm.

Trent traces his fingers round the edges of the present in his pocket whilst they wait, chewing on his tongue as he watches everyone settle in without really seeing. Virgil isn’t saying anything but he can feel his eyes on him, and it makes heat blister over his cheeks. He nibbles into his front lip and drags his nail over the wrapping paper.

“Now!” Robbo yaps excitedly. “Everyone stick their presents in the middle!”

Trent rolls his eyes, yelping when Virgil slaps him subtly on the arse for his cheek. He rolls his shoulders back to smirk up at him and Virgil just shakes his head, pressing a kiss to his forehead and leading him through the group to the growing pile of presents. He drops his quickly, held in the square of his palm so hopefully nobody saw, before backing off. He sighs staring at it, small and inconspicuous.

Ox is already loudly picking apart his present, Rhian staring at the gift bag that’s been thrust into his hands like it might explode. Trent snorts, hoping it does just for the fun of it, and for the distraction away from where Virgil is weighing the present addressed to him between his hands. He looks up and catches Trent’s eye, smiling at him softly and Trent feels himself calm.

He unwraps it carefully, unsticking the sellotape rather than tearing into it, and his smile goes all soft and goopy when he sees the black leather box and silver embossment. He drifts his fingers along the bracelet inside, grinning when he brings his head back up because Trent is right there, in front of him, eyes wide and a little panicked, even as he bulldozes on a mile a minute in a clear attempt to sound controlled.

“Thank you, T.”

Trent flushes, words rolling awkwardly in his throat. “It’s not too sappy, y’know, because it’s just the day you moved here, not like when we first kissed or anything, and you don’t have to wear it if you don’t like it, I won’t be offended. Well, I would be a bit, but -“

Virgil laughs, deep and loud, pulling all of Trent in and squeezing him into his side. “You talk too much.”

Trent hums, entire body still hot with embarrassment and nerves. If they weren’t surrounded by chaos - laughter and flying wrapping paper and loud cheesy Christmas music - Trent would burrow into Virgil’s hoodie, tuck his head under his chin. He has to make do with the fingertips Virgil is stroking across his wrist, featherlight.

“That tickles, Virg.” He whines, pouting and Virgil chuckles, squeezing the top of his spine in one big hand, smiling smugly at the way Trent’s entire body shivers.

“You have to wait until Christmas Day for your present.” He tells him, bracelet glinting on his wrist, thin silver band against smooth dark skin. “I think your Mum will love it.”

“Give it to her, then, if she’ll like it that much.” Trent retorts, trying not to giggle stupidly when Virgilmakes a face at him and flicks his temple hard.

“Maybe I’ll send it back.”

“Maybe you’re not invited anymore.”

Virgil barks. “Mm. Love you, too.”

Trent stutters a little, freezing for a singular second, before grinning manically, beaming so wide his cheeks hurt and Ox tells him his face’ll stay like that, threading an arm through Virgil’s and laughing smugly, singing Last Christmas without caring at all.


End file.
